


X-Amount of Words

by dracoqueen22



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Spoilers, Transformers Reverse Bang, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The art of moving on is a journey earned in fits and bursts. (Sunstreaker-centric)</p>
            </blockquote>





	X-Amount of Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pl2363](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pl2363/gifts).



> Written for the 2014 Transformers Reverse Bang and based on [beautiful art](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/pl2363/19635239/48543/48543_1000.jpg) by pl2363 
> 
> I tried to be as canon-accurate as possible, relying on tf-wiki for the volumes I don't personally own (like all of Sunstreaker's backstory). I may have missed some details. 
> 
> Special thanks to ladydragon76 for giving this the old look-see for me. :D

Before Hunter. Before the Machination. Before Cybertron and the Swarm. Frag, even before Earth, Sunstreaker was a mech well-accustomed to the concept of ostracization. So why now, in the peak of his self-imposed solitude did Rung and Ultra Magnus and Rodimus and fragging Bumblebee all think he needed therapy?

He made a bad decision. Several bad decisions. But he was hardly the first mech to do so and he wouldn't be the last. 

After all, wasn't the war just one string of Very Bad Decisions from all parties involved? No one knew who was right anymore. Frag, no one _cared_. Autobot. Decepticon. Neutral. They were all guilty in Sunstreaker's opinion. 

Besides. He was fine. 

He didn't need therapy. He didn't need company. And he damn sure didn't need forgiveness. 

He could do this on his own. He'd always survived on his own. 

He wasn't drowning in self-pity. He wasn't seeking to make amends. 

He was just...

Well, he was surviving. It was all he could do, what any of them could do. 

He wasn't alone. Not really. He had Bob and the stupid bug needed him since Ironhide didn't anymore. 

And Sunstreaker was content. He was fine. 

To the Pit with anyone who thought otherwise.

o0o0o

Say what you would about Rodimus, but he frag sure could make a speech. Drift probably wrote it for him, but no one could deliver it with quite the same charismatic flair. Bumblebee tried, but Sunstreaker was never one for thinking the minibot was someone he could rally behind.

Optimus Prime was, well, _Optimus_. Even if he did make bad decisions half the time, he was still a mech others listened to. Bumblebee? Not so much. 

Sunstreaker watched Rodimus' announcement from the privacy of his personal space, a hollowed out ruin in a half-shattered building, and he scratched Bob's helm. The Insecticon was a chirring lump of satisfaction, antennae twitching. If only Sunstreaker could be so content with that little effort. 

The Knights of Cybertron? Sunstreaker's ventilations coughed mockery. He didn't believe they existed. He wondered if Rodimus even believed his own propaganda. But that was Rodimus, eager to a fault. 

It seemed a cop out. They ruined Cybertron and now they expected someone else to come back and fix it for them? It was the height of vanity, if someone asked Sunstreaker. Not that anyone did. 

Millennia of war and none of them had learned their fragging lesson. 

“What do you think?” Sunstreaker asked, his vocals echoing on the shambling walls of his makeshift home. “Should we go?” 

He didn't have to believe in Rodimus' quest to go with him. He wasn't doing much good here on Cybertron and Sunstreaker didn't see it improving much for him. Autobots and Decepticons both were outnumbered. No one listened. And one twice-dead Autobot wasn't going to do much to change that. 

Bob snuffled, optics dimming. Which, if Sunstreaker wanted, he could take as agreement. Bob would go wherever Sunstreaker went. 

Sunstreaker hit replay, watching Rodimus' speech from the beginning. Something churned within him, the silent shift of Cybertron beneath spurring his thoughts.

o0o0o

They met as they always did, at the aft end of a shift, at the aft end of the settlement, in the darkness and the dregs. Both suited Sunstreaker just fine, for once, and Ironhide never seemed bothered by it. Besides, they were less likely to be recognized here and the less recognition the better.

The high grade was cheap swill, loaded with impurities, and it burned going down as much as it burned in his systems. Like tequila, Sunstreaker thought and then tossed that imagery aside. Fragging Hunter. 

“I'm going to go,” Sunstreaker said, after the third cube was down and he could barely feel his glossa, much less his pedes. 

Ironhide creaked on his stool, though his frame was newer than Sunstreaker's own freshly repaired chassis. “Go where?”

“With Roddy.” Sunstreaker pushed the cube onto the floor, watched the construct shatter to join the rest of the detritus. 

“Are you serious?” Ironhide's engine revved, rattling the counter. 

“As a heart attack,” Sunstreaker replied. 

He cringed. Slagging human phrases. They kept rattling around his brain like loose marbles. He'd asked Ratchet if the medic could somehow excise them and Ratchet had given him a look before smacking his aft out of the medbay. Fragging Ratchet. 

“Running away, I take it,” Ironhide said, but there was no accusation in his tone. 

Sunstreaker shook his helm, toying with the idea of a fourth cube, but unwilling to suffer Bob sniffing him out again. Last time the poor bug nearly got himself shot up by a nervous NAIL. 

“No, I just...” Sunstreaker made a vague gesture, trying to encompass everything and nothing all at once. “Politics. Aren't my thing. And I'm not ready to give it up.” 

Ironhide's fingers rapped against the counter, a sharp staccato that made the soused drunks snuffle their disapproval. “Not ready for peace,” he guessed. 

“Yeah. At least, not this kind.” He looked at the remnants of energon, which would have been tasteless if not for the overwhelming grittiness. “I don't belong here, Ironhide.” 

The old mech grunted at him. “That ship's a lot smaller than Cybertron, 'Streaker.” 

“And it'll have a much smaller population of mechs who want to see me dead.” Sunstreaker tossed Ironhide a smile, better a grimace, indicating his failed attempt at a joke. At least that wasn't Earth's fault. He couldn't lose a sense of humor he never had. “And it's Roddy. He attracts trouble like a magnet. I'll see plenty of action.” 

“You'll probably die.” 

“Again, you mean?” Sunstreaker rolled his optics and cycled a ventilation. “You should know. How many times have we died, Ironhide?” Offlining, at this point, was just another step on a never-ending journey. It would practically be a mercy. Because if Sunstreaker onlined his optics to another horror like the Machination, he'd rather be dead. 

Ironhide pushed back from the bar, plating shifting and flexing with the motion. “Mebbe we oughta try living then, 'Streaker. Since dyin' ain't doing either of us any good.” 

Sunstreaker barked a laugh. 

The old mech, as usual, had it right. That didn't mean Sunstreaker wasn't going to go. He still didn't want to be on Cybertron and it wasn't like he had a lot of other options.

o0o0o

Rodimus was a busy mech. Leader. Prime-to-be (or so he hoped). That he made time in the midst of his speeches and preparations to even speak to Sunstreaker spoke volumes. About his compassion or his pity or his arrogance. Pick one. Frag, pick all three.

He was in conference with Ultra Magnus and Drift, surrounded by teetering piles of datapads. But he smiled when he saw Sunstreaker, the smile of someone putting on a show. But for whose benefit? 

“Can I help you?” Rodimus asked, so fragging earnest it had to be fake. Because Ultra Magnus was eying Sunstreaker as though he walked in fully-loaded and ready to blow. And Drift had one orbital ridge arched though Sunstreaker had no idea what that meant. 

“I want to come,” Sunstreaker said. 

Rodimus cycled his optics and reached for another datapad. “Okay.” 

“With you,” Susntreaker clarified because he didn't think Roddy was getting it. “On your quest.” 

Rodimus bent over his datapad, frowning at whatever message gleamed back at him. “All right,” he said. 

Sunstreaker rebooted his audials. “That's it?” 

Rodimus lifted his gaze to Sunstreaker, looking confused. “Should there be more?” he asked, and then tilted his helm toward the nominal third in command. “And you do know that Drift's handling the roster, right? So you should be telling him.” 

Sunstreaker shifted his weight, resisting the urge to gnaw on his lip components like Hunter used to do. “I thought I should ask permission,” he began, discomfited by his discomfort and hating himself all the more. 

Rodimus sat back in his chair, interest in his datapad forgotten. “Why?” 

It should be obvious 'why' but either Rodimus was being purposefully obtuse or he didn't actually see Sunstreaker's sketchy past as a problem. Even though the truth of the matter sat like a gestalt in the corner, hulking and waiting to strike. 

Ultra Magnus made a low cough in the base of his vocalizer. Drift was doing a decent interpretation of a statue as he refused to raise his optics from his datapad. 

Neither of them seemed inclined to enlighten their captain. 

“There might be opposition,” Sunstreaker said, instead of the obvious, because Primus forbid he mention his betrayal before Rodimus started pointing him back in Rung's direction. 

Rodimus' spoiler twitched. 

“Will you be bringing the Insecticon?” Ultra Magnus asked in the following silence as though he couldn't abide by the quiet. 

Sunstreaker's optics cycled down. “Are you saying I can't?” he demanded, hackles rising. The last thing he'd leave behind was Bob. He wasn't losing the only stable constant he had in his life right now. 

Rodimus held up a hand. “No one's saying that. Hey, Bob's as welcome as anyone else. It was an open invitation, after all.” 

“Your standards are pretty low,” Sunstreaker retorted, taking a longer moment to drag his gaze back from Ultra Magnus, the rule-abiding slagger. “Would you be saying that if a NAIL walked in here? Or a Decepticon?” 

“Considering that Cyclonus has already asked to be part of the crew, the answer would be yes,” Drift said, speaking up for the first time. “And I'm sure if a Neutral wanted to come, though none have signed up, Rodimus would welcome them with open arms.” He flashed his overly optimistic smile in Sunstreaker's direction. 

He resisted the urge to punch Drift in the face no matter how satisfying it would be. 

“Open arms,” Sunstreaker repeated flatly. 

Rodimus leaned forward, elbows on his desk, frame language eager though his tone spoke of something else. “I'm a great hugger,” he said. “I could prove it if you want.” 

This was Sunstreaker's cue to leave. 

“There's not enough high grade in the universe,” he declared, and turned on a heel-strut. He didn't wait to be dismissed because clearly, this conversation had moved beyond official terms and into something wholly Rodimus. 

“Sunstreaker.” 

He paused at the unexpectedly firm tone and glanced over his shoulder. 

“We launch tomorrow,” Rodimus said, reaching for his stack of datapads. “Don't be late.” 

It was approval, Sunstreaker realized as he nodded and took his leave. Or at least, the closest thing he would get to approval from Rodimus. Ultra Magnus would probably pitch a fit once the door closed, but then, he'd probably been apoplectic when Roddy had picked Drift as his third. 

It didn't matter. Because this was Rodimus' quest and he made the rules, as weird as it sounded for Sunstreaker to say considering he still remembered _Hot Rod_. That it worked in Sunstreaker's favor was not a blessing he was going to overlook. 

Tomorrow he would say goodbye to Cybertron.

o0o0o

Bob skittered around his pedes, clearly attuned to the energies in the air, whatever they were. The whole planet, what habitable bit was left of it, seemed to carry a sense of expectation. No one really knew how many Rodimus had managed to recruit. A lot of mechs were interested in the divide between the Autobot command.

Of course, Bob could be excited just because he was a big, dumb bug and anything made him happy. Who really knew? 

Sunstreaker shook his helm at Bob. The damn bug was acting cute on purpose, as if he knew they were going on an adventure. Or something. 

Sunstreaker crossed their cramped living space and started rummaging in one of several storage crates he'd scavenged. What little belongings he had were stuffed into open compartments on his frame. Not that there was anything here he couldn't bear to lose. It just seemed like something he should do: pack for a trip he might not come back from. 

Hopefully. 

Awareness prickled down Sunstreaker's backstrut, a sense of danger. Bob growled, lowering to the floor, his plating flared. 

Sunstreaker whirled, blaster leaping into his hand and aiming at the sheet of metal he called a door. 

Sideswipe stood there, giving Sunstreaker a bland look despite the weapon pointed at the center of his chest. 

“Wow,” Sideswipe drawled, arching an orbital ridge. “I'd be afraid if that wasn't the, what, twelfth time you've pulled a gun on me?” 

Sunstreaker rolled his optics and holstered his blaster. “What do you want?” 

“I heard something. I heard rumors,” his brother said, making no attempt to come further into the tiny space. Well, he'd learned something over the centuries at least. 

“Yeah. Bots talk.” He turned away from Sideswipe, returning to the half-empty crate so he could retrieve the rest of his belongings. Bob growled again, but Sunstreaker tapped him on the top of his helm in chastisement. 

Sideswipe wasn't the enemy. At least, not in the way Bob seemed to think he was. 

“And they say you were in a meeting with Rodimus.” Sideswipe shifted with an audible creak of metal on metal. “They say you're leaving tomorrow with all the rest of the idiots.” 

Sunstreaker paused. “What makes you think they're idiots?” He turned his helm to the side, watching his brother from peripheral vision. 

“That or cowards.” Sideswipe rolled his shoulders, a purely human display that had filtered into Cybertronian frame language. “No ancient group of Cybertronians is going to come here and fix our problems. It sounds to me like an excuse to run away from the hard work.”

Funny. Sunstreaker had called it the same, only that hadn't stopped him from joining up. 

“Well, maybe some of us want to believe in something higher than ourselves,” Sunstreaker retorted and returned to his crate, stuffing the last of it into a thigh compartment before snapping it shut. 

Sideswipe scoffed. “Since when have you had faith?” 

Sunstreaker turned, crouching to pat Bob on the helm as the little Insecticon kept glancing between the brothers, hackles still raised. “I've always had faith,” Sunstreaker replied, keeping his attention on Bob because it was easier. “Maybe not in Prime. Or the Autobots. Or the Matrix. Or Primus.” 

_Or you._

Those were words he kept to his spark. 

“Or anything else,” Sideswipe finished for him, something in his tone. “Not even yourself.”

Sunstreaker tried not to flinch. He failed, and then hated himself for trying. So he settled for something else, something he was much better at: belligerence. 

“Did you come here to insult me or talk me out of going? Because you're only succeeding at one of those.”

“Why are you going?” 

“Isn't it obvious?” Sunstreaker rose to his pedes and almost smiled when Bob made a noise of discontent when the petting stopped. 

Sideswipe shook his helm, optics cycling down. “So you're running away, too.” There's accusation in his tone. 

“I prefer to think of it as picking my battles. I'm not living in the lap of luxury here and I'm not doing any good either,” Sunstreaker retorted and he was more than a little annoyed that he had to defend himself to Sideswipe. 

Sideswipe huffed a ventilation. “Does Roddy know you don't even believe in his pitslag?”

Sunstreaker shrugged, waving a dismissive hand. “Half the crew doesn't. I don't think it matters.” 

“What did Ironhide say?” 

He stared. “I don't have to ask his permission,” Sunstreaker said. “But for your information, he wished me luck.” 

Sideswipe crossed his arms, shoulders hunching. “He would,” he muttered. 

Sunstreaker performed a systems check, reminding himself that brawling with Sideswipe wouldn't help anyone. “Was that all you wanted to say?” Sunstreaker demanded. “Because I need to finish packing and Bob's getting antsy.” 

“Antsy,” Sideswipe repeated as though tasting the term, one so unfamiliar to Cybertronians. And, like too many other unwelcome phrases, crowded in Sunstreaker's helm. 

Fragging humans. 

“Shut up,” Sunstreaker snapped and pushed past his brother, motioning for Bob to follow him. He was quite done with this conversation, if one could even call it that. 

“Rodimus is going to get you killed,” Sideswipe called after him, frustration painted on his faceplate, though he made no move to give chase. 

Sunstreaker paused, looking over his shoulder at the slag-hole of a room he'd crafted for himself and the shadow of his brother standing in the center of it. 

He almost felt like laughing. 

“One can only hope,” Sunstreaker said. “Goodbye, Sideswipe.” 

He left. Sideswipe didn't follow. 

That part of their past was long behind them.

o0o0o

Over two-hundred mechs on the _Lost Light_ and Sunstreaker still ended up rooming alone. He didn't count Bob.

He was also failing to see how this was a bad thing. 

No roommate meant no awkward moments or questions. He wouldn't have to defend himself or his past. He wouldn't have to explain his present. Tomorrow was too far away to even consider. One day at a time. 

Cybertronians didn't dream, but Sunstreaker called pitslag on that belief. Or maybe it was an aftereffect of being temporarily merged with an organic mind. Sunstreaker didn't know. He wasn't a medic and he was nowhere near desperate enough to ask one. 

He didn't use to dream. Now, Sunstreaker couldn't remember what it was like to recharge without those static-filled images that blended truth and lies. They were disordered and awkward and nauseating and agonizing. They were truths he didn't want to remember and lies that made the reality worse. 

Sometimes, his processor couldn't tell the difference. Or his defensive subroutines. He snapped online with blasters locked and loaded, teeth bared, frame hot and ready for action. He was a hair trigger away from full combat. 

He was a hot mess, as the humans would say. 

Echoes, the field medic had once called them when Sunstreaker went in search of an anonymous NAIL who wasn't Ratchet or Autobot. They were supposed to go away on their own. But just in case...

For the third time, Sunstreaker tossed Rung's personal comm number. 

He didn't need therapy, frag it. He was alive. He had survived. He wasn't crazy. He was fine. 

Even if Rodimus had locked them all in hab-suites without an explanation. There was something going on, Sunstreaker was sure of it, but he was one of dozens of other mechs who weren't privy to the explanation. He didn't need Roddy to tell him that there was some kind of danger, even if he was annoyed that he couldn't raise a blaster to it. 

He had only an agitated Bob for company, the Insecticon staring at the closed door as though expecting a monster to come barreling through it. 

Sunstreaker chuckled to himself. 

The monster was in the room with him. Only Bob was too dumb to realize it. Dumb or loyal, maybe both. Sometimes, the two went hand in hand. 

Sunstreaker perched at the console, tried not to think about whatever Rodimus was doing to try and fix the cluster-frag that was the start of their journey. He punched into the system, accessed the public roster, skimming it. Some designations he recognized. Most he didn't. 

At least there was no one he need outright avoid, except perhaps Whirl. Not because Sunstreaker was afraid but because he didn't need the provocation. Or the brawl. 

Either way, Sunstreaker certainly didn't envy whomever got stuck with Red Alert. Another side benefit to being _persona non grata_ , he supposed. 

This would do for now. This would be a good start. 

The rest he would, as the humans say, play it by ear.

o0o0o

A sparkeater.

Of all the fictional bogeymen in Cybertronian tales, a sparkeater had managed to find itself on the _Lost Light_. Sunstreaker wouldn't have believed it if not for the security footage and the fact that Rodimus was striding around with two bare arms like a badge of honor until Ratchet finished fabricating the rest of his armor. 

A sparkeater in the opening refrains of their journey did not bode well. He couldn't decide which would have been worse: a sparkeater or fragging scraplets. 

Sunstreaker wasn't surprised so much as he was resigned. He should have expected something like this from a quest headed by Rodimus. It was just the sort of excitement he had been looking for. Too bad he hadn't been included in the action. 

One good thing, at least, had come out of it. 

There was a bar onboard the _Lost Light_ and some enterprising mech had taken it upon himself to operate it. 

By the time Sunstreaker found it, there was a pseudo-party in full-swing. A little serving bot was scuttling around the floor, offering engex and collecting empty containers. Bots of all size and color were scattered around the room but there was a lone booth near the bar that was yet unoccupied. 

Sunstreaker hurried toward it before anyone else could claim it, Bob at his heels. Behind the bar, he noticed, was a minibot. Not one he recognized at first glance. Sunstreaker slid into a seat and Bob hopped up next to him, attempting to climb into his lap. Sunstreaker shoved him back down and pulled out a handful of energon treats and tossing them to the excitable bug. That should keep him occupied for, oh, about three seconds. 

“Uh, it's not going to attack anyone, is it?” A voice asked, prompting Sunstreaker to look up. The minibot had emerged from behind the counter, holding a tray of engex. “Because I'd hate to have to throw you out. I mean, I'd let someone else do it, but you know, it would be terrible for business.” 

“He won't attack anyone,” Sunstreaker said, optics narrowing. “Provided no one attacks him.” 

“Good, good. Just, you know, checking. To be sure. And all that.” The minibot tossed him a bright smile. “So... drink?” 

“How much?” 

“First one's free. All it'll cost you is your name. After that, well, it's a sliding scale.” The minibot rolled his shoulders and set down a tiny tube in front of Sunstreaker. 

Very tiny. He dipped his helm to get a closer look. A mouthful, at most. Sunstreaker wasn't even sure it was worth his name, but he was stuck on this ship with these two-hundred mechs for however long. He might as well know who they were. 

“Sunstreaker,” he answered, picking up the tube and examining it. “What's in it?” 

“Sunstreaker,” the mech repeated, bottles jangling on his tray. “As in, Sunstreaker?” 

He cycled his optics, looking up at the minibot. Was he glitched or something? “That's what I said.”

“Right. I thought so, but, you know... oh! Look at that. Another customer. I guess that's where I come in!” 

The minibot vanished so quickly Sunstreaker expected to see vapor trails. He rolled his optics and tossed back the tiny sample of engex. It wasn't the worst he had, but it wasn't the best either. It would do for now.

Bob rose up, nudging at Sunstreaker's hand with his face, hunting for more treats with an eager aft wiggle. Sunstreaker pulled out a few more, realizing that he'd have to find someone to resupply him from now on. Bob ate like a mech on the constant edge of starvation. Plus, he was greedy and had no concept of taking it slow.

Sunstreaker's optics wandered the room, picking out familiar faces amongst a sea of strangers. Rodimus wasn't here, which was actually a surprise. Though it was possible he could show up later. Sunstreaker recognized Skids and Rewind and the latter's ever-present shadow, Chromedome. And then Ratchet came striding inside, reminding Sunstreaker that his favorite medic was on board. Joy. 

More mechs came and went. The serving bot brought Sunstreaker another drink, chirping a demand for shanix that was affordable enough Sunstreaker indulged. Though how the minibot could charge for something he acquired for free was beyond Sunstreaker's understanding. 

No one bothered Sunstreaker. Bob eventually slunk to the floor to recharge on Sunstreaker's pedes. No one bothered him either. 

Now to see what tomorrow would bring.

o0o0o

He hadn't been needed for the team that headed down to Delphi. Ratchet had some sort of stake in whatever was going on down there and he'd picked his own team. Sunstreaker bet every cube of high grade he had that the only reason Rodimus didn't push to join them was because he wasn't interested.

Sunstreaker didn't take it personal. He had no desire to go down to Delphi, despite rumors that it was the stomping grounds of the DJD. Those mechs might prove an interesting challenge, but even he knew that at five to one, survival was not an option. He wanted to meet his end, but he wasn't suicidal. 

He was also well aware how that sort of statement would only make sense to himself. 

Fortunately, conversation hadn't been part of the equation lately. Whether it was because everyone was still getting used to the 'bumpy start' Rodimus called their quest, or were avoiding Sunstreaker on purpose, he didn't know. Part of him didn't care. He had Bob for company and that was good enough for him. 

Not talking, of course, didn't stop them from staring. He had a reputation before the whole debacle on Earth. Sunstreaker was used to staring. 

He took up residence in a corner of the training center, one of the few places he found where he could spend off-shift. The war was over, depending on who you asked, but that didn't mean he could let his skills lapse. They were all he had of value anymore. And if recent events were any indication, they would be needed on this particular quest. 

Bob was napping nearby, little snuffles of ventilation leaving him as he flopped on his belly, a few limbs tucked beneath him. He was the picture of ease and maybe that was a sign, that Bob could be so comfortable here when he was such a jittery bug otherwise. Sunstreaker's own senses were keen, but nothing beat an Insecticon's, especially a runt who had to learn to survive on his own. 

Bob wasn't bothered by the staring so neither was Sunstreaker. 

He went through several sets, comforted by the familiarity, and the feel of his own frame responding to his own commands. It was a sensation easily taken for granted until that freedom was taken. 

Freedom. Sunstreaker snorted to himself. Wasn't that always Optimus' rallying argument against the Decepticons? Maybe he should've started preaching it at the humans, too. 

Sunstreaker finished the last set with a sharp snap of his wrist when the prickle danced down his spinal strut. He knew, without having to look, that his solitary little corner had been invaded. Bob's antennae perked, proving the bug wasn't entirely in recharge. 

Sunstreaker turned, optics narrowing as he attempted to identify the mech approaching him. Sensory panels like Prowl, blue and red paint scheme, a chevron... He was familiar, Sunstreaker believed, but his memory core was still a muddled mess on occasion. 

“Smokescreen,” the mech said. 

Sunstreaker frowned. “I didn't ask.” 

“Well, you looked like you were going to.” The mech smirked, his expression uncomfortably similar to Sideswipe's. “You looking for a challenge?” 

Sunstreaker straightened, gaze flicking up and down. Smokescreen was not a warrior-built, that was obvious, but he'd had some modifications along the way. Those panels would be a weakness. He probably relied more on his weapons than hand to hand combat. 

“Why?” Sunstreaker asked, shifting his stance. “You know someone who can offer one?” 

He expected offense, what he got was a laugh and a twitch of those sensory panels. “I'm not a master but I get by.” 

It took effort to keep the derision from his face. This mech looked like he'd never seen the inside of a gladiator pit, unless he was on the outside making shanix off it. Still, he was the one who approached Sunstreaker and not the other way around. If he came with the intention to start trouble, that was his own mistake. 

“I don't hold back,” Sunstreaker warned and look at that, they were attracting an audience. Mechs who had been watching Sunstreaker from afar were now wandering closer because they were all a gossipy bunch and this was gossip-gold. 

“I wouldn't dream of asking you to.” Smokescreen joined him on the mat, one panel flicking as he settled into a rather familiar defensive stance. “But if it's all the same, whatever saves me a trip to see Ratchet, the better.” 

Sunstreaker rolled his neck cables, easing out the kinks. “Then you'd be safer walking away now.” 

“I guess that's the risk I take.” Smokescreen grinned with the kind of confidence that could go either way. 

Sideswipe was like that, too. Cocky without the know-how to back it up, and offended when he was planted on his aft like the amateur he was. Somehow, his inadequacy was always Sunstreaker's fault. 

If only, Sideswipe would say. And he'd follow it up with any number of excuses. 

If only. 

Sunstreaker shook himself out of the memory as Smokescreen stared at him, formulating a snarky response. “Suit yourself,” Sunstreaker said. 

The crowd grew, more witnesses rolling in, possibly being called by those already present. Bob was fully online now, alert as his optics focused on Sunstreaker. 

Smokescreen noticed him, proving he wasn't a complete idiot. “So, if I beat your aft, will your pet attack me?” 

Sunstreaker smirked. “He might. But it won't be as easy as you think.” 

“I think you'll be surprised,” Smokescreen said. 

“Nothing surprises me anymore,” Sunstreaker said, his tone a tad bitter and yeah, the damn Praxian must have picked up on it. “But you can give it your best shot.” 

Smokescreen grinned.

o0o0o

“Are you settling in well?”

“As opposed to?” 

“A few have expressed the urge to return to Cybertron.” 

“Well, I'm not one of those. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I stepped aboard this ship.” 

“And what is that?” 

“It's Rodimus. There's guaranteed to be danger and destruction and a whole lot of the unexpected.” 

“Is that what you wanted?” 

“I don't care about the Knights of Cybertron, if that's what you're asking. And I could probably count on one hand the number of mechs on this boat who actually think that's what we're going to find.” 

“Boat?” 

“Human phrase. It's not important.” 

“This happens often?” 

“...”

“Sunstreaker?” 

“Isn't our time up?”

“If only you paid attention to these sessions as closely as you do your chronometer, but yes, it is.” 

“Then I'm out of here.” 

“And I'll see you the same time next week.” 

“Next week!?”

“Rodimus' orders.” 

“Fragging Rodimus.”

o0o0o

Getting away from Cybertron should have been the first step in moving past his numerous, _numerous_ mistakes. And he'd thought that was true, up until he walked into the refueling station and saw Boss chatting it up with Hoist and some other mech. He supposed his only saving grace was that he couldn't remember Road Rocket being a member of the roster.

And, apparently, that Boss was completely incapable of holding a grudge. 

He waved Sunstreaker over with an unexpected enthusiasm. If he noticed that his other companion made himself scarce, one couldn't tell. Hoist stayed at the least. Sunstreaker couldn't remember offending the engineer personally so... thank Primus for small favors?

“I didn't realize you'd joined up,” Boss said, sticking out his hand in greeting and Sunstreaker was too surprised not to accept. “Is Road Rocket here, too?” 

Sunstreaker shook his helm. “Not that I'm aware. I never took you for the religious sort, Boss.”

He shrugged. “You have to believe in something, I guess. This seemed as good as any place to start. What about you?” 

“It was better than being on Cybertron.” 

“Yes, the tension there is quite unbearable,” Hoist offered, shifting in place as though uncomfortable. 

Understatement of the millennia, Hoist. 

Boss tipped his helm. “Something like that.” He flickered his optics and made a vague gesture. “Magnus has me in maintenance of all things. Someone let slip that I used to poke at engines for fun. What about you?” 

“Monitors,” Sunstreaker answered and tried not to frown. It was a failed attempt. He'd strangely found himself with a lot of free time. “I'm supposed to be front line but somehow, I keep missing the roster.” 

Hoist made a noncommittal noise, burying his expression in his energon. 

“Yes, the captain does have his favorites,” Boss agreed. 

“And I won't ever be one of them if I don't get to my shift on time,” Sunstreaker said, tipping his helm toward the refueling station. He hesitated for just long enough to hate himself for the indecision before he offered, “Maybe I'll see you in Swerve's later?” 

“Sure. If I'm not buried in rusty gears and coagulated fluids.” 

What a nice mental image. Still. One down, at least two hundred to go, depending on the nature of the current roster. Sunstreaker dared to be, well, not optimistic. But less negative at least. 

With Rodimus involved, anything could happen.

o0o0o

A new sign had shown up in Swerve's bar. Sunstreaker thought it amusing and telling, both because it was inevitable and proof-positive of Rodimus' influence on a quest. There was also the Whirl component to consider.

Days since last incident, it said. 

Well, now they'd have to change it to zero, Sunstreaker thought as he hauled Boss' damaged frame into the medbay as Inferno gave Fortress Maximus chase. The big bot had gone, to be frank, nuts though how he'd missed and only hit Boss was a mystery unto itself. 

Sunstreaker had escaped death once again. If Boss was lucky, and Ratchet the miracle-worker he'd always been, so would Boss. But usually, one hit from that cannon Fortress Maximus called a blaster would kill anyone. Yet, he hadn't even aimed at anyone other than Boss. 

Boss, who had dared reach out a hand in something like friendship and paid the price. Sunstreaker might consider himself cursed if he weren't already resigned to the fact that there were no such things as curses. He was just that fragging unlucky. 

“Medic!” Sunstreaker hollered as Boss' pedes left paint scuffs across the floor, energon a lurid smear behind him. He didn't know who was on duty and he didn't care so long as someone answered him. 

The noise of activity slammed him in the audials. 

My but Max was in a mood. First Aid and Ambulon were bent over Pipes, shouting at each other, but it was Ratchet who noticed Sunstreaker, barreling toward him as though Sunstreaker was the one who went on a shooting rampage. 

“Another one!” he bellowed. 

Boss sagged in Sunstreaker's grip but Ratchet plucked him off the ground as though he were no bigger than a minibot. It paid to be a medic, Sunstreaker supposed. 

“I didn't do it,” he said. 

Ratchet tossed him a look. “I know you didn't.” His optics flicked over Sunstreaker along with the telltale buzz of a scan before he hustled to a medberth, Boss in hand. “You're not hurt.” 

“He missed.” 

“Hm.” Ratchet's hands worked – quickly thanks to his new acquisitions – and it didn't take a medic to see that Boss was in bad shape. Sunstreaker had spent a fair portion of his life ripping mech's apart. He knew what critical damage looked like. “If you're not damaged then get the frag out of the way.” Ratchet paused as though someone had just commed him. “Aid, we got another incoming!” 

Sunstreaker got the frag out of the way. He backed up, out of the path of another casualty being rushed in, smoke pouring from his chassis and the scent of scorched metal and energon hanging pungent in the air. Another victim of Fortress Maximus' rampage. 

He checked his messages but he hadn't been called to respond. He'd been put on standby. He wondered if his assignment was an afterthought or a caution. 

Sunstreaker looked down. He was covered in energon and smears of Boss' paint. His hands were amongst the cleanest bit of his plating. 

A first.

o0o0o

Three crises in a row and they'd barely limped toward the first sign of the Knights of Cybertron. Sunstreaker wasn't surprised, but whispers had already started to spread throughout the crew. Whispers that perhaps they were better on Cybertron, that this was not what they signed up for.

They had a medbay full of mechs barely clinging to life after their explosive beginning. They had Ratchet sulking around with a new pair of hands that didn't make his temper any more bearable. They had poor Rung, helmless in the medbay, Red Alert acting more skittish than usual, and Fortress Maximus in the brig. 

And somewhere on the ship, Tailgate was taking the pledge to become an Autobot after he'd been misinformed about the circumstances of the war. 

Yes, Sunstreaker would hardly call this a fortuitous beginning. Somehow, Roddy was maintaining his good mood and optimism. More power to him. 

Sunstreaker sat in his hab-suite, huddled on his berth in what little space a sprawling Bob left for him, aimlessly paging through a datapad. Occasionally, his optics would wander to the viewport, the stars rushing by. The ship was a subtle hum around him. In the hallway, he could hear some idiots playing hand grenade tag again. Soon, Ultra Magnus would come stomping after that. 

It was almost normal. 

On a journey like this, Sunstreaker thought he could get used to normal. It wasn't fighting Decepticons, but it wasn't all that bad.

o0o0o

Sunstreaker's first clue that something was not right was when Bob hunkered down close to the floor and made whimpering noises. The second clue was Bob attempting to scuttle under the berth and hide in the dark corner.

It took the better part of an hour of cajoling and the offering of energon treats before Sunstreaker could coax the dumb bug to come out, and it didn't take a genius to read the disquiet and fear radiating from his pet. Bob was all but shaking, his armor panels clamped tightly to his frame, his antennae quivering. 

Frustration ate into Sunstreaker before he could fully tamp it down. He'd finally been scheduled for something other than monitor duty and he'd had to comm someone else to cover his shift because Bob was acting weird. He supposed he should be fragging lucky that Smokescreen was willing to take it for him. 

To the medbay it was. 

Sunstreaker grunted under the weight of the Insecticon, who couldn't be convinced to walk but at least curled up into a ball that was easier to carry. Bob shivered and clattered and made more of those pathetic noises that weren't at all reassuring. Sunstreaker awkwardly tried to pat him, console him, but it was to no avail. 

Worry crept up. He swallowed it back down. 

He arrived in the medbay to the sound of screaming and no Ratchet in sight. He would have to make do with First Aid or Ambulon, the former who tended to skitter away when Sunstreaker came in sight and the latter who tended to flee at glimpse of Bob. 

Great. 

Sunstreaker didn't want to know why the off-liners were being shackled since they shouldn't have been capable of movement, but there they were, thrashing about and making some horrendous noise. It sent chills up his spinal strut and he edged away from their dubiously unconscious frames, looking for a medic. He wanted Ratchet, what he got was Ambulon. 

The once-Decepticon came into view, looking harried, his paint flaking all over in such a manner that it made Sunstreaker's plating crawl. How could anyone let themselves walk about looking like that? It was... horrifying. Yes, horrifying. And hideous. 

Ambulon performed what amounted to a double-take when he saw Sunstreaker and he frowned, optics drawn to the bug in Sunstreaker's arms. “Can I help you?” 

Sunstreaker resisted the urge to be snide. “There's something wrong with Bob.”

“Your... pet?” Ambulon asked like there was an invisible mech beside Sunstreaker instead of an Insecticon in his arms. 

Sunstreaker gritted his denta. “Yes.” He looked past the medic, staring at the off-liners. “What the frag is wrong with them?” 

“I don't know yet.” Ambulon peered closer at Bob. “I am not familiar with Insecticon physiology,” he said, his frown deepening. “I can scan him but I suspect Ratchet will be of more help.” 

“Fine. Where's Ratchet?” 

“Not on board, last I heard.” Ambulon finally dragged his optics back to Sunstreaker's face. “Bring him over here.” He gestured to an empty medberth. 

Sunstreaker clutched Bob a little tighter, the bug whimpering in his arms. “Not on board?” he repeated, trying to release Bob to the berth and the Insecticon having none of it. He was doing a great impression of an Earth octopus, all of his limbs clinging to Sunstreaker and causing scrapes in his paint. 

Ambulon gave him a look. “You really don't pay attention to anything, do you?” 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Sunstreaker demanded as he successfully managed to extract Bob and get him onto the berth. Keeping him there became an exercise in futility, even with several commands to stay. 

The medic cycled a ventilation as he brought a scanner over. “Nothing,” Ambulon replied and he lapsed into silence as the scanner did its job. 

Sunstreaker debated leaning harder on Ambulon but when it came down to it, he didn't give a frag what the former Decepticon thought of him. Any mech who let his paint slide like that couldn't be worth a second's pause to Sunstreaker. He kept his silence. 

Besides, Ratchet would frag his aft if Sunstreaker harassed his assistants. And if there was one thing Sunstreaker still had, it was a healthy respect for Ratchet. 

Sunstreaker folded his arms and watched Bob, the Insecticon shivering as he crouched on the berth, optics half-shuttered. 

“He appears to be fine,” Ambulon said as the scanner beeped and surrendered its results. “I can't detect anything abnormal. What are his symptoms?” 

“You can look at him and see he's not right,” Sunstreaker said with a sharp gesture toward Bob. “You think he shakes like that all the time?” 

There was an audible click as Ambulon cycled a ventilation. “As I said, I'm not expert on Insecticons. Physically, he's fine. Maybe he knows something we don't.” 

As if on cue, the _Lost Light_ lurched to the left as a beam of light flashed in from the windows. Sunstreaker grabbed the berth to keep himself on his pedes; Ambulon was not so lucky, the medic tossed to the ground in an ungainly heap. On the other side of the medbay, the off-liners stopped screaming. 

Sunstreaker didn't think that was a good sign. 

“What the frag was that?” he demanded as a dim, yellow glow started to pour in from the viewport.

Ambulon climbed to his pedes, mouth agape. “Nothing good,” he said. 

Bob, peering out from under the berth now, agreed with a chirp. 

Somehow, Sunstreaker felt Rodimus was to blame.

o0o0o

It didn't surprise him when later, Sunstreaker learned he was right. Mostly. Then again, it wasn't Rodimus' fault that Cybertronians were largely loathed by the rest of the universe. They had earned their black marks.

He got the whole story from Boss who heard it from Hoist who had asked Trailbreaker (or Trailcutter or whatever he was calling himself now) who had talked to Skids who had actually been there when most of it went down. 

Why Bob had responded to the sound of the Metrotitan's screaming, Sunstreaker didn't know. Part of him didn't want to know. But Bob was fine afterward, scrabbling happily at Sunstreaker's heels and eager for treats, so Sunstreaker considered it a bullet dodged. 

Rodimus had a habit of getting them in trouble. Fortunately, he seemed to be Primus' favorite mech, because he always got them out of it somehow. The power of good luck, Sunstreaker supposed. 

Except that Rung was in medbay, lacking a helm. And now Red Alert was in cold storage because he'd shot his _own_ off (faulty pressure pad, his _aft_ ) and what that said about Rodimus' leadership, Sunstreaker couldn't say. Then again, Red Alert had always been a paranoid fragger. 

Sunstreaker was just glad that Rodimus hadn't gone from accusing Cyclonus to pointing his finger at the traitor on board. That was something, at least. 

It was kind of nice, Sunstreaker reasoned, to exist in a state of disregard. He was here, on this ship, with over two hundred other mechs, and for the most part, he was lost to the crowd. He was just another mech, going about his duties, the dubious company of Bob aside. He was here, but he wasn't. 

Rodimus had his favorites and while the old Sunstreaker might have ranted and raged about not being the first picked for frontline combat, the new Sunstreaker was becoming strangely okay with it. 

He wondered what Rung would have to say about that. But then he remembered that Rung wasn't saying much of anything right now. 

Yeah. Fortress Maximus. 

Sunstreaker could hardly blame the mech. He was probably the only one on the _Lost Light_ who could sympathize. Torture came in many forms. And it changed you. It changed your priorities, your thoughts, the shades of gray that ruled your actions. It made you angry and afraid and hateful and... 

...hopeful. 

Somewhere, buried in there, remained a desperate hope that it would be okay again. Somehow. 

Even if no one showed up to save you. Even if you ended up saving yourself. 

Sunstreaker and Hunter had freed each other. They'd used each other to escape from the Machination. They hadn't relied on the Autobots because if they had, well, Sunstreaker was pretty sure he'd still be there today. The Autobots arrived in the aftermath, late to the party as usual. Clean up and defense, never proactive. 

How long had Maximus been in Overlord's tender care? How long until Prowl felt it was tactically viable to render aid? 

Yeah. Sunstreaker could relate. He could see why Maximus would snap and demand accountability. Sometimes, Sunstreaker wanted to grab Prowl by the chevron and shake him until answers fell out. 

He was reasonably sure he was in the majority of Autobots for wanting to do so. Prowl could be... difficult, to say the least. His decisions weren't popular. _Prowl_ wasn't popular and it wasn't hard to see why. 

So. No, Sunstreaker didn't have a hard time understanding Maximus' anger. He'd made his own bad choices, caused the pain and distress of Autobots as well. He could sympathize. 

They all went a little crazy sometimes.

o0o0o

“You want me to what?” Sunstreaker looked down at the small bot, part of him itching to scan the corridor for Rewind's usually present shadow.

Rewind looked back at him, perennially unafraid despite the fact he's among the smallest of the mechs aboard the _Lost Light_. Sunstreaker respected him for that. Even if he was always poking his camera into places it didn't belong. “Help Rung.” 

“Why would I want to do that?” 

Rewind tilted his helm. “Because you're an Autobot?” At least he sounded unsure. It was a start. 

Sunstreaker folded his arms, lifting an orbital ridge. Bob, meanwhile, finally stopped acting like a skittish bug and approached Rewind, sniffing curiously. That Rewind took a slow, cautious step back meant that he wasn't a complete idiot. 

“Or... not?” Rewind said. 

Sunstreaker almost laughed. “What makes you think I can help Rung?” 

“Because you have a story to tell.” With that pronouncement, Rewind regained some of his former boldness because he perked. “We all do, really, but you and a few others are all connected by circumstance and have just the challenge Rung needs to pull himself together.” 

The irony almost swallowed Sunstreaker whole. So, the psychotherapist needed his patients to be sane again? Dear Primus he almost burst into laughter there in the corridor.

“Who?” Sunstreaker asked. 

“Siren. Blaster. Perceptor. Gears. Oh, and you, of course,” Rewind said and the tilt of his helm caught the overhead light just right, making his camera lens gleam. 

Sunstreaker frowned, searching his databanks, but couldn't recall a single moment he and the aforementioned bots had been in the vicinity at the same time. Though Rewind would probably fill in that blank at some point. Who knew what obscure connection they had?

It might even be... fun? It would get him out of his hab-suite, at least. 

“Okay,” Sunstreaker said. 

Rewind cycled his optics. “... okay?” 

“Yes,” Sunstreaker confirmed, more confidently this time. “I'll help.” 

Rewind stared at him, his gaze shifting from Sunstreaker to Bob and back again. “You'll help,” he repeated. 

Was there a fragging echo in here? 

“I said so, didn't I?” Sunstreaker demanded, some of his good will evaporating in the face of Rewind's skepticism. A growl vibrated in his chassis. 

Optics brightening, Rewind nodded. “Yes, you did. You absolutely did. So. Swerve's. Later. Yes?” He took a step back and Bob, intrigued, seemed to think this an invitation to get closer. 

A barked command from Sunstreaker took care of that. Though it didn't keep Bob from happily bouncing back toward his master, rising up on his hind legs and demanding pets. 

“Fine,” Sunstreaker said, patting Bob on the helm. “Can I bring Bob?” 

“The Insecticon?” 

Was there an Autobot wandering around named Bob or was every mech on this ship that fragging stupid? How many times had Sunstreaker been asked to clarify who Bob was? He didn't dignify Rewind with a response, instead staring at the little mech until he got the point. 

Rewind beamed at him, all fake cheer. “Sure. Why not?” He stepped back again, very obviously a retreat. “See you then.” 

Sunstreaker watched him go, unsure if he should be flattered, irritated, or offended. So he settled for something in between.

o0o0o

He'd been giddy.

And yes, giddy was the closest word Sunstreaker could find. Finally. Some action. There were more than enough Decepticons to go around to please the battle-hungry mechs on the _Lost Light_. 

It didn't matter that he was invited only because Rodimus had sounded the all-call for volunteers. Sunstreaker had felt a surge in his spark the moment he heard the invitation. He'd been sparked for battle, built for it. And something had been missing as of late. He suspected it to be the thrill of battle. 

No one looked twice at him. Ultra Magnus didn't even spare a suspicious frown, probably because he was saving it for Whirl but who gave a frag? It was battle! It was Decepticon smashing! It was what Autobots had been doing for centuries! 

Excitement!

For the first time in a long time, Sunstreaker felt like himself again. He didn't know how many Decepticons he killed, only the sweet scent of discharged blasters, splattered energon, and the crunch of metal beneath his fists. Someone popped off a lucky shot and he was sideswiped by a clawed tail. Not enough to put him out of commission but enough to issue him a second-class ticket to Ratchet's tender care. 

It was minor damage which meant he would have to wait for the hard luck cases. Mechs like Rewind who was apparently dying and Swerve who'd shot off his own face and Pipes who'd gotten stepped on and Cyclonus, who'd been blown up all to slag and the only one who'd cared was Tailgate. Sunstreaker wasn't sure what to think of the nervous little mech except that since Tailgate was ignorant of the past, he had the uncanny ability to be friendly to Sunstreaker. He didn't know any better and no one had bothered to inform him otherwise. 

He thought Bob was cute. He'd been skittish, afraid at first, of the large Insecticon. But sometimes Bob would get out and go missing and Sunstreaker would have to hunt him down before Ultra Magnus could and he'd find Bob cuddled up to any manner of mechs. Here lately, it had been Tailgate. Bob liked Tailgate and Sunstreaker suspected it was because Tailgate kept energon treats tucked into the empty spaces in his frame. 

Tailgate was the sort of mech Sunstreaker would have never looked twice at. He was small and useless and friendly and all of those qualities irritated the slag out of Sunstreaker. Yet, this same minibot was somehow _taming_ Cyclonus and if that didn't take bolts, Sunstreaker didn't know what would. 

Anyway. There Sunstreaker was, off to the side on the last clean medberth, waiting for his turn and watching the hustling bustle. Chromedome moping over Rewind. Tailgate sticking his olfactory sensor in everyone else's business. Sunstreaker heard more than he wanted to hear and saw more than he wanted to see and slipped into a light recharge while he waited. 

He onlined to Ratchet giving him a curious look, the medic's expression one of surprised disbelief. “What the frag are you doing here?” he asked. 

Sunstreaker cycled his optics, sluggish from his doze. “This is a medbay, isn't it?” He lifted his hand, showcasing the gash in his side and the energon trickling from the ragged wound. His self-repair had sealed the minor tears and he was in no danger of offlining, but still... medical assistance required here. Duh. 

“Last time I checked,” Ratchet drawled and he stepped closer, examining the rip. “And you've been here? Waiting?” 

Sunstreaker rolled a shoulder, hissing as Ratchet touched a frayed wire and set off a pattern of errors. “It's only a mesh wound.” 

“You've been waiting,” Ratchet repeated and his optics shifted to Sunstreaker's faceplate for some frag all reason. Like he'd suddenly gone deaf. “You, Sunstreaker, who bitches about scuffs in his paint, have been waiting.” 

Sunstreaker huffed a ventilation. “Yes, I waited,” he said, irritation making him bristle. “What's the big deal?” 

“The big deal,” Ratchet repeated and then shook his helm. “Nothing at all. Lie back. Lucky for you, you'll live.” 

Sunstreaker glared but obeyed. Ratchet, at least, had put him back together more times than Sunstreaker could count. Ratchet, he trusted. “Yeah,” he agreed, refusing to hide the sarcasm. “I'm the lucky one.”

o0o0o

“How are you healing?”

“I wasn't aware I was injured.” 

“Your file indicates you were damaged during the battle on Temptoria.” 

“That? Barely a scratch in comparison.” 

“To what?” 

“...” 

“You realize that the quicker you cooperate, the quicker I sign off on the evaluations and Rodimus stops ordering you to see me.” 

“Rodimus isn't paying my mental health any attention.” 

“You don't think he's concerned for his crew?” 

“I think he has priorities and that they are fluid.” 

“You don't seem to have much faith in Rodimus.” 

“Frag that. I'm probably the only one on this ship who believes in him. Except Drift. And he's not exactly firing on all cylinders.” 

“Interesting you would claim this considering that your previous comments would indicate a certain level of disdain for Rodimus.” 

“It's complicated.” 

“You would be surprised how often I hear that from mechs.” 

“I doubt that. Nothing's black and white. Nothing's yes or no. Everyone thinks they have it figured out, that they are sure of certain things, convictions and beliefs, until the time comes when they are put to the test.”

“Is that what happened to you?” 

“That's a dumb question. You think I'm the only mech who's had to make a choice?” 

“Such a belief would be naïve. I am not interested in others, however. I am interested in you. Your choices.” 

“Why? Is talking about it going to change them? Is it instantly going to make me a better mech? Am I going to be happy as soon as I bare my spark to you? Is it going to fix everything? This is fragging pointless and even Rodimus knows it, he just feels better by thinking he's helping.” 

“I'm sorry you feel that way. But I am trying to help you, Sunstreaker.” 

“I'm sure you told Red Alert that, too. And we all see how that turned out.”

“... I'll see you next week.”

o0o0o

Sometimes, the dull moments from one event to the next were the worst. Sunstreaker divided his time among the training rooms, polishing his finish to a luminous shine, and Swerve's, the garrulous minibot having an ingenious idea when he decided to open a bar. Even if Ultra Magnus had been fully against it.

Sunstreaker spent a lot of time tucked away in a corner with Bob, sipping on the same glass of engex. Losing control was not of interest to him so he indulged in taste and recorded observations. 

Sometimes, mechs stopped by to chat. Smokescreen challenged him to another spar. Boss exchanged small talk. Hound thought that Bob was fascinating. 

Sunstreaker wasn't completely isolated and that, at least, was a relief. But he still enjoyed the occasional rounds of solitude and it was easier to observe when he was alone. It just nailed the point home that when it came down to it, Hoist was right. 

The _Lost Light_ was staffed with an army of lunatics and that was putting it nicely. Sunstreaker included himself among those lunatics, but still. 

There was the nauseating and awkward dance of courtship between Ratchet and Drift and Sunstreaker had no idea how that was supposed to work. 

There was Whirl and his daily attempt to prove himself better than everyone else as a smokescreen to his self-hatred. 

There was Jackpot, so deep in debt that he'd have to start offering his own plating and internals as collateral. 

There was Chromedome and Rewind arguing about something one or the other did while Skids kept popping in and out of the ceiling, much to Magnus' fury. Tailgate mooned after Cyclonus with a desperation that reminded Sunstreaker all too much of himself sometimes and Swerve? 

Yeah, Sunstreaker wasn't going there. 

No wonder Red Alert had “stepped onto a faulty pressure pad” or whatever lie Rodimus kep spreading to keep the crew unaware. Sunstreaker knew a cover up when he heard one. 

So while Sunstreaker would have preferred to spend his time in battle, this was nice, too. He could sit back, Bob purring on his pedes, and sip on his engex. No one bothered him in his corner. No one sent him glares or stared at him or muttered. They had more interest in their own drinks, their own conversation, their own neuroses. It all worked out.

o0o0o

Hedonia held no interest to Sunstreaker. For all of a second, he considered going just to get off the ship, but the realization that many species of aliens would be present, he opted against it.

He loathed organics. He wasn't sure he could resist the urge to squish. Safer to stay on board. 

All the troublemakers had opted for shore leave which left the _Lost Light_ quiet in their absence. This, too, was nice. Sunstreaker walked the mostly empty corridors, Bob energetically running ahead of him before scampering back. With no Ultra Magnus around to throw a rod, Bob was reveling in freedom. Poor bug needed more exercise, Sunstreaker realized, and made a mental note to make it happen. 

And then, surprise of surprises, there was Rodimus, walking a random corridor on his ship and looking all the more lost for it. Of all mechs to enjoy shore leave, Sunstreaker would have expected Rodimus to be one of them. Or at least for him to be holed up somewhere with Drift learning the “ways of the sword.” 

Sunstreaker had spent just long enough unwillingly attached to a human to be able to read all the subtleties in that. Which put a whole new spin on the awkward dance between Ratchet and Drift. He was certain there was a betting pool somewhere and Sunstreaker had a nice little stash of stanix to add to it, once his observations sent him on the right road to victory. 

Bob, of course, saw Rodimus and bounded forward with all the eagerness of an Earth dog, pedes scrabbling across the floor. Rodimus had a moment to brace himself before he was assaulted by an Insecticon and down they went. 

Sunstreaker waffled between amusement and embarrassment before he decided that laughing was the best course. 

“Sunny!” Rodimus sounded like he couldn't decide between amusement or outrage, himself. “Bob!” 

“He likes you,” Sunstreaker said before he gripped Bob's collar fairing and yanked the stupid bug back, a task made easier with Bob's help. Otherwise, there's no way he would have been able to remove him. “Consider it a compliment.” 

“I'm flattered,” Rodimus drawled, touching the tiny dents on his chassis before he climbed to his pedes. “Unlike his master, I suppose.” 

“Never said I hated you,” Sunstreaker replied, optics taking in the scratches to his captain's paint.

Rodimus grinned. “Yeah, well, you never said you liked me, either.” 

“Mmm. Point. Bob, sit.” 

Bob obeyed, more or less. He sat, but immediately stood up again, circling around the two mechs with energy in every movement. 

“He obeys so well,” Rodimus said, planting his hands on his hips. 

Sunstreaker arched an orbital ridge. “Better than half the mechs in your crew.” 

Rodimus laughed. “Point.” He watched Bob for a moment, silence growing in the space before he spoke again. “Hedonia not for you?” 

Sunstreaker rolled his shoulders. “Not this time.” He peered at Rodimus, noting the slump to his frame, the twitchy nature of his field. “Just felt like taking a casual stroll around the storage deck?” They were on one of the lowest levels of the _Lost Light_ after all, not a place Rodimus was often found. 

“Something like that. I was looking for Drift. Seen him?” 

Sunstreaker smirked. “Have you checked medbay?” 

“Why? Was he hurt?”

He quelled the urge to laugh, but only with great effort. There was some consolation to be taken in the fact he wasn't the only less than sane mech on board. Clearly, the _Lost Light_ was where he belonged. Leaving was one of the best choices he ever made. 

“Not to my knowledge,” Sunstreaker replied. “It was just a suggestion. Any idea where we're headed next?” 

Rodimus' gaze wandered to the window, peering at the sight of Hedonia below them. “I'm honestly not sure we've been on track since our explosive departure from Cybertron.” 

“It's not about the destination, but the journey,” Sunstreaker said and nearly popped himself in the helm. Damn human phrases. “But I think that's been the point all along.” 

“You don't believe in my quest?” 

“My?” 

“Our,” Rodimus corrected, optics shifting back to Sunstreaker. “I'd been wondering why you came with us.” 

“You haven't spared a thought for me, Rodimus. But don't worry, I'm not offended.” Sunstreaker waved a dismissing hand. “And it doesn't matter why I'm here or why any of us are here. Everyone's searching for something, even if it's not the Knights.” 

Rodimus lapsed into silence as though digesting Sunstreaker's words. “I suppose we are,” he said, tone thoughtful. “Thanks, I think.” 

“For what?” 

Rodimus shrugged, a slow grin replacing the guarded expression. “For being you.” 

It was Sunstreaker's turn to frown. That didn't make sense. “Who else would I be?” 

Roddy chuckled and circled around Bob to pat Sunstreaker lightly on the shoulder. “Who else indeed. Comm me if you see Drift, alright? Nice talking to you.” 

“Sure,” Sunstreaker said, watching him go and lunging to grab Bob before the bug took off after their captain. “Anytime.” 

It wasn't the strangest conversation he'd ever had with Roddy, but it was pretty close. Bob chirped at him, wriggling to get free. 

“Not this time, bug. There's only so many times Roddy will let you jump on him before he punts you out the nearest airlock,” Sunstreaker said, smiling down at the Insecticon. “How about a treat instead?” 

Bob's squirming increased in earnest. 

Sunstreaker laughed. At least Bob was simple.

o0o0o

“How many mechs do you think are on this ship?”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“How many?” 

“Two hundred, give or take.” 

“Two hundred. And how many of those are required by Rodimus to have counseling?” 

“Four.” 

“Including me.” 

“Yes.” 

“Funny how that works, isn't it? But I'll bet Rodimus isn't one of them, despite the fact he's got an inferiority complex the size of Metroplex. Or Swerve? No mech talks that much if he's not compensating for something.”

“I am sure if Rodimus thought they were truly in need of my help, he would--”

“Pitslag. There isn't a single mech on this ship who isn't fragged up in the helm in some way. You know it. I know it. Roddy doesn't care who needs the help. He's just doing what he thinks he's supposed to be doing so it looks good. Maybe he thinks I'll be grateful.” 

“Or maybe he genuinely cares. And don't give me that look. I remember quite well the sparkeater incident. I might not have been fond of our captain afterward but I do understand what he was trying to accomplish.” 

“Become, you mean.”

“Could you clarify?” 

“Roddy wants to be a hero. More than that, he wants to be Optimus Prime but frag, I don't even think Optimus Prime is Optimus Prime, if that makes any sense. Oh, right now he's wandering around as Orion Pax like it's going to make a difference when we all know it's not. Roddy should start focusing on being Roddy and he'll be a hell of a lot happier.” 

“Are you happy?” 

“What the frag kind of question is that?” 

“A valid one. You say Rodimus should be happy being himself. Does not the same truth apply to yourself?” 

“I make no apologies for who I am, only the things I've done.”

“That doesn't answer my question.” 

“It's all the answer you're going to get.”

“Sunstreaker, our time isn't up yet.” 

“It is for me.”

o0o0o

“Busy?”

Blaster looked up from his console and cycled his optics as though surprised to see Sunstreaker standing there. “I'm on duty,” he said slowly. “Was there something you needed?” 

Sunstreaker, having debated with himself over and over whether or not he wanted to do this, reached down deep. “I hear you've got the long range network back online.”

“As I told Swerve, not yet.” 

“But I can still record a message?” 

“Right now?” 

“Yes.” 

Right now was perfect. Right now, no one was paying attention to what was going on in Blaster's corner and Rodimus was off doing Rodimus things that meant he wasn't being nosy and even Ultra Magnus was otherwise occupied. Most of those eager for word from Cybertron had already come and gone. 

Sunstreaker wouldn't say he was eager. In fact, he wasn't even sure what he was going to say yet. But he thought maybe he should let someone know he wasn't dead. 

Blaster pushed back in his chair. “Depends on who you want to contact, I guess. Some might have more luck than others.” 

Sunstreaker folded his arms. “Ironhide.” He hoped the number he had for the old mech was right. 

He had a number for Sideswipe, too. Whether or not he was going to use it was a different matter. 

Blaster gave him a long look before swiveling back to his console. “Do you need some privacy?” 

“No.” Why would he? 

“Suit yourself.” Blaster's fingers flew over the keys. “Ready whenever you are.” He handed Sunstreaker the unit. “Just don't take nine hours.” 

Sunstreaker reset his audials. “Who would need nine hours?” he demanded before accepting the device and bracing himself. 

_Ironhide. I'm not dead. Try not to be disappointed. Pass that on to anyone else who cares. Oh, and if you die before I get back, I'll kill you myself. We had a deal, remember? Sunstreaker, out._

Short. Sweet. To the point. That's what always had worked best for him. 

Sunstreaker handed back the unit which Blaster took reluctantly, confusion etched into his faceplates. “That's it?” 

“Yes.” 

“You're sure.” 

“Why wouldn't I be?” Sunstreaker clenched his jaw, waiting for Blaster to explain himself or make an accusation or voice his assumptions. 

Blaster held up his hands. “No reason. I was just checking. To be sure. Want to send another message?”

The debate won out before Blaster even asked. 

Sunstreaker shook his helm. “No. One's enough.” Sideswipe would either hear from Ironhide or he wouldn't. Word would get around that the _Lost Light_ hadn't been destroyed. 

“One it is.” Blaster returned his attention to the console, packaging up the message and sending it into the queue. “Done. I'll let you know when and if there's a reply.” 

“Thanks,” Sunstreaker said, and took his leave. 

He wondered what Ironhide was doing on Cybertron. Or how well Bumblebee was bearing up beneath the pressure of Metalhawk and the Decepticons and _Prowl_. Primus that was a situation Sunstreaker was glad he escaped. 

He wondered what Ironhide would think to see him now, not friendly but not hated, building a niche for himself among the other crazy mechs on the _Lost Light_. 

And for the briefest of brief moments, Sunstreaker wondered what Sideswipe would have to say, but then he let that curiosity fall by the wayside.

o0o0o

Sunstreaker woke screaming, sending Bob running for the hills to cower under the berth as Sunstreaker fought off imaginary foes. It was dark in his quarters, dark save for lights from his console and the door panel and they were just bright enough to fool distracted optics.

He flailed, defense systems activating, ready to pummel the first organic in his sight. Ready to make them pay for the pain, for treating him like a machine, for taking him apart component by competent, ripping out his definitions and replacing them with nothing. 

Nothing but pain and despair. 

Ventilations heaving, Sunstreaker fell off the berth, clattering to the floor. His helm bounced off the ground with a sharp smack. His optics fritzed. Sanity returned. 

The steady hum of the _Lost Light_ thrummed through the floor and against his plating. His sensors did a broad sweep, registering Bob within the room and other mechs to rooms on either side of his own. 

It had been a long time since a memory purge had rattled him from recharge. He'd dared to think they were leaving him alone. 

Sunstreaker ex-vented and didn't move, letting his helm thunk back against the floor as he offlined his optics. One by one, he powered off defensive protocols, pushing aside his blasters and letting his systems cycle down. He focused on the sound of his own ventilations, of Bob's as the bug huddled under the berth, and the barely audible whoosh of the _Lost Light_ 's systems. 

He had a shift in a few hours. Fatigue clawed at him. He felt as though he'd been running full bore throughout his entire recharge. He hadn't rested at all. 

Bob finally crept out from beneath the berth, helm nudging at Sunstreaker's splayed hand and he lifted it, patting the bug gently. Bob purred and crept closer, a warmth settling against Sunstreaker's side. His purrs vibrated against Sunstreaker's plating. The warmth was a sharp contrast to the chill of his memories. 

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to talk to Rung after all.

o0o0o

“I must say, I'm pleased that you've come to see me of your own accord.”

“You don't have to be smug about it.” 

“I'm not. I'm flattered. It takes courage to make such a choice. May I ask what precipitated your decision?” 

“...” 

“Sunstreaker?” 

“Purges. I have them. Sometimes.” 

“Will you tell me about them?”

“You've read my file. Can't you guess?” 

“I've read Ratchet's observations and the history of your physical damage. I would prefer to hear what happened as you know it.” 

“I don't want to talk about it. I just want to put it behind me.” 

“And how well has that worked?”

“I get by.” 

“And yet your presence here today suggests that you wish for more than that.”

“Mechs might argue I don't deserve anything more.” 

“Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. But change doesn't begin with them. It begins with you.” 

“... I don't know where to start. And don't you fragging tell me at the beginning.” 

“All right. Why don't you tell me about Bob then?” 

“That I can do.”

o0o0o

This was not Sunstreaker's idea of adventure.

Overlord. Fragging Overlord was on the _Lost Light_. 

For a long, long moment, Sunstreaker had thought he was in the middle of a nightmare. Except that his worst one involved humans and in the face of that, dying at the hands of a Decepticon was a mercy. 

That was, if Overlord straight killed him and didn't make him suffer first. 

Drift, in pieces. 

Ratchet, a battered mess. 

Ultra Magnus, bleeding out energon, possibly dead. 

Smears of energon on the floor. Score marks on the walls and ceiling. The sound of metal crunching and blasters firing and this wasn't battle. It was a massacre. 

There were two hundred Autobots on the Ark and in the wake of Overlord, it didn't mean a fragging thing. 

_Rodimus is going to get you killed_ , Sideswipe had said.

Damn but that fragger would be impossible once he learned he was right. Sunstreaker gritted his denta, gripped his blaster, and leapt into the fray. 

He lasted an astonishing two-point-one seconds before Overlord backhanded him into the bulkhead, his massive hand slamming against Sunstreaker's chestplate, thumb slapping him across the faceplate. He heard a sickening crack, felt something buckle in his chassis, his blaster falling from nerveless fingers. His frame tumbled to the floor in a clatter, vents spattering energon. Someone shouted. 

And then the universe went black.

o0o0o

He lived. Like so many others.

Some weren't so lucky. Mechs Sunstreaker barely knew, like Tripodeca. Mechs he knew a bit better, like poor Pipes. Mechs he respected, way down deep, like Ultra Magnus. 

And Rewind. 

Sunstreaker almost wished to hear Chromedome and Rewind bicker because it was certainly better than this silence, this tension. Watching Chromedome wander around in a daze, like a zombie. The whole _Lost Light_ existed in a haze of grief. 

How many mechs? Sunstreaker didn't dare count. He could read the exhaustion in Rodimus' faceplate, the faltering enthusiasm and confidence. 

Bots were demanding answers. Sunstreaker wanted no few himself. A mech like Overlord? Did not just appear on a spaceship in the middle of nowhere, especially when said spaceship followed no plotted course and was itself wandering aimlessly. 

Sunstreaker had been sent back to his hab-suite to recover. He had paused by the washracks to rinse away the grime, the sense of being unclean. There'd been a mirror near the supply cabinet, and in it, he could see the chinks in his plating. The scratches in his finish. The mars in his paint. 

Ratchet had repaired him, but the cosmetic was his to perfect. 

There were weld lines, spots where Alpha Trion and Ratchet had fixed him before. Weak spots, now. Spots that would never be at their former strength. The weld lines that pieced him together were thicker now, like scars, ugly and twisted. The metal surrounding them was bare, protoform grey, but dull like that of an offline bot. 

But he was alive. He had faced Overlord and survived and he was thanking Primus he'd had the foresight to lock Bob up in their hab-suite before answering the call to arms. 

Bob greeted him with a chirp and a happy wiggle and an attempt to leap up on Sunstreaker. He was vibrating with tension, as though somehow the bug knew what had happened and had been worried. 

He kept sniffing Sunstreaker, all that he could reach, lingering on the weld lines. Sunstreaker crawled onto the berth, unsurprised when Bob followed him, still sniffing. 

He patted the bug on the helm, thinking of that moment, that split-second when he'd seen Overlord's massive hand heading for him and knowing he didn't have the time to step aside. He'd thought that Overlord would be the death of him all over again. 

It hadn't been the relief he thought it would be. And that thought was almost as frightening as it was illuminating.

o0o0o

Sunstreaker never thought he would feel a kinship with Drift. The obvious aside, he didn't much like Drift's positive and eternally optimistic attitude. He thought it an overly transparent attempt to be anything but what he had been.

But even he thought driving Drift off the _Lost Light_ was wrong. Because it certainly wasn't right. 

Everyone was too angry, too caught up in their grieving, to see the larger picture. That Drift couldn't have possibly done this on his own. That Drift was Rodimus' lapdog and could have never kept a secret. That this had Prowl's stench all over it. 

But Drift was the ex-Decepticon. Drift wanted to protect Rodimus beyond all else. Drift was a Primus-damned fool. 

Everyone aboard wanted a scapegoat, someone to blame, someone to hate. Sunstreaker knew that feeling all too well, having been on the receiving end of it. In his case, he was wholly responsible for his actions. Drift was taking the full brunt of blame that should have been shared. 

He didn't deserve exile. He didn't deserve to be cast out by Rodimus, turned into the empty black by himself. He didn't deserve Rodimus' cowardice. 

But Sunstreaker supposed that was the way the universe worked. 

Things happened. None of it fair. None of it deserved. Slag happened. You picked yourself up and you moved on. 

Sunstreaker watched Drift's tiny shuttle vanish into the unknown. He was one of the few who lingered. Rodimus had been the first to make himself scarce. Ratchet was the last to go, staring at the closed hanger door with his stolen hands clenched into fists. 

It made Sunstreaker wonder if there was anyone who could be that angry over what happened to him. If anyone would stare into the dark of the universe, loathing the decision made by their superiors because they knew it wasn't deserved. 

No wonder Mirage had been less than accepting of their apologies. 

Sunstreaker, Bob at his heels, retreated to Swerve's. He passed scorch marks and energon stains in the hall. The bar was noticeably subdued. Unusually quiet with fewer mechs than usual, for once Sunstreaker found room at the bar, Bob at his pedes, probably sensing the tense atmosphere. No one protested. Few spared him a glance. 

Swerve stood behind the counter, polishing a glass, looking pensive. Most of his usual exuberance was missing. 

Rewind had been his friend. But in a strange way, so had Drift. 

“You want something special, you'll have to come back another orn,” Swerve said, wandering Sunstreaker's direction. 

“I'll take whatever you're serving,” Sunstreaker said as the door behind them whooshed open. He glanced over his shoulder, unsurprised to find Ratchet entering. 

No doubt the last place he wanted to be was medbay right now. Not with the evidence of Overlord's rampage lingering on every medberth. Sunstreaker was lucky enough to walk away from that encounter. He thanked Primus again he'd had enough sense to keep Bob in his hab-suite. Otherwise that bug would have been a smear under Overlord's pede. 

Just like Pipes. 

Ratchet slid into a stool next to Sunstreaker as Swerve clunked some engex down in front of Sunstreaker, unflavored but potent all the same. He'd retrieved one for Ratchet too, the medic grunting out a thanks. 

“Don't mention it,” Swerve said, and while he would have normally stuck around to chat, this time he didn't. He wandered off, aimlessly swiping a rag over the pristine counters. Weld lines ran ragged over his armor, echoing the ones that were on Sunstreaker and Ratchet's own. 

No one had walked away from Overlord without a souvenir. 

Sunstreaker watched Ratchet examine his engex as though it held some special solution before he knocked it back quicker than should have been physically possible. And then he glanced at Sunstreaker's. 

“You going to drink that?” 

“I was thinking about it,” Sunstreaker said, but he pushed it Ratchet's direction. Swerve would be back eventually. Maybe. “Guess not anymore.” 

Ratchet made a noncommittal noise and downed Sunstreaker's portion as quickly as the first. Either he was aiming to get completely hammered or some special medic programming made such a state impossible, in which case the rapid consumption was futile. 

“Trying to forget?” Sunstreaker asked. 

“Something like that.” Ratchet pushed both empty glasses to the edge of the bar, fingers of one hand tapping the counter in an off-rhythm staccato. 

Sunstreaker shifted on his stool, wondering if he dared ask what was none of his business. Maybe Ratchet just wanted to drink in silence. Maybe he didn't want any more company than the burn of his engex. 

“I'm getting too old for this,” the medic muttered, subvocal, but Sunstreaker heard it clear as a bell. 

Argh. Damn human idioms. He wondered if he beat his helm hard enough, they would fall out of his brain. 

“Word around the ship is that you're retiring,” Sunstreaker said as Swerve appeared, dropped off two more cups, and vanished. Silently. 

It was fragging creepy. As annoying as it was, garrulous Swerve was what he'd gotten accustomed to. This? Not so much. 

Ratchet snorted. “As if I could. The rate these mechs around here are getting scrapped, I can't afford to.”

“You volunteered,” Sunstreaker pointed out, because it had always surprised him, that Ratchet would choose to come with Rodimus instead of staying with Bumblebee and Prowl and Ironhide. “What did you expect from a mission organized by Hot Rod?” 

“Rodimus.” 

“Same difference.” 

A dark chuckle escaped the medic. “Yes. I suppose it is.” He toyed with his new engex as though debating drinking it. “I couldn't find what I was looking for on Cybertron. You know how that is,” Ratchet answered, giving Sunstreaker a long look. 

Sunstreaker made a noncommittal noise, chugging half his engex and grimacing at the bland burn of it. Swerve had put no effort into this mix, that was certain. 

“Ratchet, you're never going to retire,” Sunstreaker said. “You love it too much. First Aid will inherit your title over your cold, gray frame. Tell me I lie.” 

The medic tossed back his engex, pushing the empty cup back across the counter, upside down to indicate he was done. “I've got work to do,” he says. “Mechs are dying. I can't sit around here getting overcharged.” 

Sunstreaker knew a closed topic when he heard one. He grunted an acknowledgment and watched Ratchet hustle out of Swerve's. There was another candidate for Rung's office if Sunstreaker saw one. Then again, so were most of the mechs on the _Lost Light_. 

Dysfunctional lot that they were. 

Sunstreaker shook his helm and returned most of his attention to his drink. His optics wandered the bar, keenly aware of the unnatural quiet. 

The sign above the bar hadn't been updated since Sunstreaker's last visit, he noticed as he sipped his engex in the silence. Days since last incident, it read.

Thirty-five. 

Swerve would have to change it now.

o0o0o

Sunstreaker stood in line, next to fire, watching to see who would emerge victorious in the friendly competition. Boss had already gone, his score quickly outdone by Blades, a record that couldn't stand by the time Atomizer stepped up to the line. Brawn didn't have a chance in the Pit of catching up, but he waited behind Sunstreaker.

Bob had lost interest in the challenge long ago and was now recharging in a corner, leg kicking in his rest and vents snuffling. No one had given him a second look. 

Sunstreaker knew he wouldn't be winning this challenge either. He was more proficient in hand to hand combat, perhaps even with bladed weapons. He could use a blaster, efficient and accurate, but not to the extent of someone like Atomizer. How the frag was a crossbow a useful weapon anyway? Somehow, Atomizer made it work. 

It made up for the fact that, once again, Sunstreaker had been passed over for a landing party. To be fair, Rodimus had passed over most of the crew, though why he'd taken Rung of all mechs and Tailgate was a reason beyond Sunstreaker's comprehension. 

“Hah!” Atomizer crowed as the last shot struck home, dead center and in line with all four of his previous efforts. “Top that. Any of you. I dare you.” 

Brawn snorted, arms crossed over his chassis. “How about a little modesty?” 

“Why bother being modest when it's obvious truth?” Atomizer argued, swaggering out of the line up so that Sunstreaker could take his place. 

“Frag his aft, Sunstreaker,” Blades said, more than a little aggrieved by his own record being outdone. His rotors twitched behind him. 

Sunstreaker shook his helm, picking up the rifle they were all using to 'even the odds'. “I don't know what makes you think I can. I'm no sniper.” 

“What? Sunstreaker admitting he's not the best at something?” Atomizer faked surprise and slung his arm over Sunstreaker's shoulders. “Tell me, Streaker, since when did you have such a change of spark?” 

He rolled his shoulders, slinging Atomizer's unwelcome weight off. “Shut the frag up, Atomizer. No one asked you.” 

Atomizer back off, holding his hands up. “What you going to do about, Streaker? Make a deal with the Slagmaker? Oh, wait. You already did that.”

Sunstreaker's optics narrowed, his engine growling as he whirled toward the mech. That was when the shot knifed through the group, slamming Sunstreaker in the shoulder and knocking him backward. It stung like the Pit. 

“What the frag!” he heard Blades shout as the sound of blasterfire filled the air. 

Sunstreaker caught himself, pulling his own weapons as he and the others were suddenly surrounded by massive yellow mechs, their faces blank as they chanted a number in unison. 

“Seventeen Twenty-One. Seventeen Twenty-one.” 

“What in Unicron's name are those things?” Boss demanded, the closest to Sunstreaker as he dove behind a table for cover. 

Sunstreaker gritted his denta, energon trickling from his ruined shoulder. “I haven't a fragging clue. But it's got Rodimus' name all over it.” 

“It doesn't matter what they are,” Brawn growled, slamming a fist into his palm. “They don't belong here so they're scrap.” 

Truer words had not been spoken. Brawn was right. 

The battle was on. 

This, at least, Sunstreaker understood. It had to be Rodimus' fault but their captain had the luck of the devil, as the humans would say. He would sort it out. Until then, Sunstreaker and all the others had to make sure he had a ship to return to.

o0o0o

'VOTE' said the signs plastered all around the _Lost Light_ , most notably in Swerve's bar but in other places well-traveled by the ship's mechs.

The signs, in Sunstreaker's opinion, were unnecessary. There wasn't an Autobot on this ship that didn't know about Rodimus' referendum. 

Sunstreaker didn't need to think about it. He didn't spend long hours in contemplation, weighing his options. Because unlike a lot of mechs on this ship, he'd known Hot Rod before he knew Rodimus. And that mattered. 

He voted for Rodimus. 

Why? 

Because Rodimus, as self-centered, arrogant, and impetuous as he was, hadn't looked twice when Sunstreaker asked to come aboard. And while that seemed a stupid thing for a captain to do, he hadn't ordered Whirl out the nearest airlock either. He'd made Drift his third in command. He'd gathered up a contingent of outliers, weirdos, and damaged mechs and he'd turned them into something else. Something more. 

Rodimus would never be Optimus Prime. And Sunstreaker was actually glad for that. Because if he wanted to follow Optimus Prime, he would have stayed on Cybertron. 

It was an impossible thing to consider, but somehow, Rodimus was both self-centered and compassionate all at the same time. 

Sunstreaker voted for Rodimus because he knew what he was signing up for when he walked onto the _Lost Light_. He knew there would be danger, which Rodimus would thrust them into head first and without second thought. He knew there would be poor decisions and madness and a complete lack of caution. 

And anyone who believed otherwise was a fragging liar. Except maybe Tailgate. And Whirl. And any of the others who didn't have much a choice in joining this dysfunctional group of misfits. They didn't sign up for this. 

But the others? 

Fragging liars and hypocrites if they signed up expecting Roddy to be Optimus. 

They should have known Rodimus would land them in trouble after trouble. And that was what they got. Roddy made a mistake. Roddy and Drift and Chromedome, too. They all did, thanks to Prowl, and it took some time, but at least Rodimus owned up to it. He didn't have to. He could have left Drift carrying the blame forever. But he didn't. 

Sunstreaker could understand that, too. No one was perfect. No one had endless bundles of courage. Sometimes, it could take a while before the conscience kicked in. 

Sometimes, you had to fall a bit lower before you could even begin to start climbing. 

So Sunstreaker voted for Rodimus and he did it without second thought. Even if he was the only one who did, Sunstreaker would be content with that. 

Because Sideswipe was wrong. Sunstreaker did have faith. He believed in something. And now he wanted Rodimus to believe in it, too.

o0o0o

“Making amends... part of me thinks that Rodimus has the right idea. The other part of me thinks it's a worthless venture.”

“Why?” 

“Because how do you even start? How do you apologize for the deaths you inadvertently caused? For the mistakes you've made?”

“I would guess that you do what you can. One mech at a time. One day at a time.” 

“Maybe that's what Roddy's going to do.” 

“What about you? What do you plan to do?” 

“All I can. One burned bridge at a time.” 

“It sounds like you figured it out.” 

“I tried. And now our time's up. Guess I'll have to continue this some other time.” 

“Before you go...”

“Yes?” 

“Congratulations.” 

“On what?” 

“This is the last time you are required to see me. Though feel free to stop by anytime. My door is always open.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yes. I sent the necessary signatures up to Rodimus before you even walked through the door.” 

“I... thanks.” 

“You've earned it.”

o0o0o

Sunstreaker pinged Rodimus' door for entry and was more than a little surprised when it slid open without a reply. He stepped into the entry, searching the office for Roddy and finding the captain behind his desk, staring intently at the top of it. Datapads were haphazardly stacked to one side and another side held an assortment of odds and ends.

Rodimus didn't so much as look up at the sound of the door opening. Either he was deep in thought or he didn't much care who came to call. 

Old Roddy would have probably greeted any visitor with some grandiose gesture. 

It was up to Sunstreaker to breach the silence. Fortunately, he'd come here for a purpose and had no issues doing so. 

“You look busy.” 

Rodimus startled, laser cutter leaping out of his hands and hitting the floor. “Sunny! Nice to see you.” He flashed a smile. 

Sunstreaker flinched. 

“Oh,” Rodimus said. “Sorry, Sunstreaker. What can I do for you?” 

He stepped fully inside, let the door slide shut behind him and looked around Rodimus' office. It was the same but it was different, or maybe it was the mech behind the desk that was different. Rodimus was still Roddy, brightly painted and full of attitude and confidence and bright grins. But he'd learned a little something about himself lately. 

“Uh, Sunstreaker?” 

He dragged his gaze back to the captain who looked confused but not angry. “I voted for you,” Sunstreaker said. 

This time, it was Rodimus' turn to flinch. He sat back in his chair but didn't leap at the chance to speak, not like he usually would. He looked at Sunstreaker as though a thousand responses were running through his helm, but none of them would suit. 

“Why?” 

Sunstreaker grinned, the words coming by choice and not by accident. “Because you're only human,” he said. “That's all any of us are.” 

Rodimus stilled and the sound of him cycling a ventilation was abnormally loud in the quiet. The slow smile that took over Roddy's face was the closest thing to genuine Sunstreaker had ever seen. Like a lightbulb had gone on over his helm, so to speak, the same lightbulb that had changed everything for Sunstreaker, months and months ago. 

“Thanks, Sunstreaker.” 

“Just don't turn me into a liar.” 

Rodimus shook his helm and reached for a datapad. “There's no danger of that. And you? Are you... okay?” With genuine smiles came genuine concern, halting though it was. 

Sunstreaker tapped his chestplate, right over his badge. “I guess I'm only human, too.” 

A chuckle escaped the captain of the _Lost Light_. “I guess so. I'm glad to hear it. I'd say I'm proud but I'm pretty sure I had nothing to do with it.” 

“We have to face our own demons, even if we do get a little help along the way.” Sunstreaker inclined his helm in agreement and turned to leave, though he paused at the door. “I hope we find what we're looking for.” 

“Me, too.” 

Sunstreaker smiled to himself and took his leave. Outside, Bob waited with a patience no one could have expected of an Insecticon, rearing up on his hind legs as soon as he saw Sunstreaker. He was greeted with a happy quirk of the bug's antennae and a low purr of his power plant. 

“Yeah, yeah. I'm grateful for you, too,” Sunstreaker said, patting him on the helm. “Come on. Let's go.” 

Rumor had it that their long-range communications were finally up and he had more than one message to send. 

What he had to say was both a long time coming and fully deserved.

****

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Give it a Whirl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5045965) by [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22)




End file.
